


Lenz's Law

by eugenides (newamsterdam)



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Background Relationships, Developing Friendships, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/eugenides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They circle around it, getting closer but never quite reaching it-- an understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lenz's Law

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PsiCygni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsiCygni/gifts).



_2257.56  
Earth – San Francisco_

Despite his years in service, Spock has spent remarkably little time aboard a starship. He doesn’t dispute the logic of his assignments. Indeed, he’s felt something almost like pride while working on programming the Kobayashi Maru, something he’d term as accomplishment if asked. But to join Starfleet is to expect service in space, and he can’t help but feel that he hasn’t upheld his end of a nebulous bargain. 

There had been his year-long assignment as the Science Officer aboard the USS Constitution, of course. He’d been selected by Captain Pike directly out of the academy, though he’d spent more time with the First Officer and CMO during that mission than the Captain himself. The illustrious pilot and XO of the Constitution was known as Number One more often than her name, and Spock had often pondered the irregularity of this. He personally has no patience for nicknames. But the Commander and Doctor Boyce were both many years his senior, and it was from them that he’d learned about the operations of a starship and the particularities of managing a crew as a commanding officer. 

There had been one lesson, in particular, that they had emphasized—the most rewarding relationships are often the ones which require the most effort. But Spock had stood between them and marveled at how easily he’d gotten along with them, and hadn’t quite believed those words. 

He wouldn’t be serving with them again, he knew. Doctor Boyce had officially retired from the rigors of space travel and taken up a position at an instructor at the academy. It had been fortunate timing—teaching provided more of a challenge to Spock than any of the hurdles of his own education, and he’s weekly chess matches with Boyce had provided him with the necessary counsel to manage his technique, to learn how to impart wisdom as well as absorb it. But the fact remained that Boyce’s time as a CMO was over.

As for the Commander—who Spock could not help but think of as Number One, despite the fact that he knew her full and proper named and addressed her by it more often than not—she was no longer a Commander at all. At Captain Pike’s recommendation she had become a Captain herself, and was currently working out of Starbase 04, waiting for the next wave of constitution-class starships to be built. 

But the first would not be going to her. After their mission, the Constitution itself had been retired. It was a proud and noble ship—if Spock were inclined to personify, at least—but it was also an experiment, and a gamble. The one year mission had given Spock and Chief Engineer Mahabir ample time to work through the ship’s specifications and make improvements. They had reported back their findings, all of which were to be implemented in the newest ships immediately. 

One such ship would be ready within the year—the Enterprise. Captain Pike had commed Spock earlier that morning with the news, and his next assignment. He would be putting aside his role as an instructor at the academy, and putting to use the skills he’d acquired from observing Number One and Doctor Boyce. 

Within the year, Spock would be the First Officer of the Enterprise. 

 

\--

“Don’t worry about it,” Nyota assures him. She has a soothing voice, steady and euphonious. “I’ll help you practice.”

They are in Spock’s quarters, which are standard for all instructors who choose not to seek their own accommodations. Therefore, they are more suited to a human’s needs than a Vulcan’s. Nyota sits in one of the low chairs, her legs draped over the armrest. Instead of its usual high tail, her hair is coiled into a braid that hangs over one shoulder. She has shed the jacket of her cadet uniform, and Spock notices each movement of her arms under the thin synthcotton of her undershirt. 

“It would be illogical to practice,” he informs her. “You neither take on the role of each officer, nor anticipate their responses.”

She wrinkles her nose, shakes her head. She is a master of body language, and uses it with precision, and yet she is also constantly in motion. He often finds that if he looks away from her for even a moment, he has missed something vital. So, more and more, he does not look away.

“Why don’t you just admit you’re a bit nervous? Captain Pike wants you to choose a crew manifest for him to review—that’s a big responsibility.” 

Spock is standing by the window, his body turned at an angle so that he is able to observe both Nyota and the winding paths of the academy grounds. He tilts his head to one side and blinks deliberately. 

“There is no reason for me to be nervous. Indeed, those who I will interview will likely be under more stress than myself. I have already secured placement aboard the Enterprise, and they have not.” 

“Mm-hmm,” Nyota says, flicking at the loose ends of her braid. After a moment of comfortable silence, she propels herself upwards with one fluid motion and walks towards him. She comes up along his left side, drapes one arm around his waist and rests her head against his shoulder. 

“You understand people well enough when you try,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll make the right choices.”

 

\--

_SPOCK—_

_MCCOY IS THE MOST TALENTED DOCTOR WE’VE HAD AT STARFLEET IN THE PAST FIFTY YEARS. TRUST ME, I’D KNOW. CHRIS HAS HIS SIGHTS ON PURI, BUT YOU COULD ALWAYS USE A FEW SPECIALISTS ABOARD, TOO._

_TRY AND REMEMBER THERE’S A BRILLIANT DOCTOR UNDER ALL HIS SCRUFF WHEN YOU MEET HIM, ALRIGHT?_

_—P. BOYCE_

As far as Spock can tell, Doctor McCoy is up to regulation in appearance and has no “scruff” to speak of. He marches into Spock’s office three minutes late, his long legs carrying him in the door with determined strides. He’s wearing a regulation cadet uniform, all red that matches the color in his cheeks. He straightens up and gives Spock a withering look.

“You wanted to see me, Commander?” His voice is inflected—drawn out vowels and o’s that drift into other letters and risk being swallowed. Southern United States, Spock decides. Nyota would be able to pinpoint the exact location. 

“Have a seat, Doctor,” he replies evenly. He even gestures at the chair in front of his desk, although it is the only other seat in the room and therefore the only place the doctor might have sat, excepting the floor. 

McCoy remains standing, his arms held stiffly at his sides. Spock has often taught introductory classes at the academy, and knows the posture of those new cadets who haven’t yet learned to stand at attention or rest. McCoy, he can tell, is trying to keep himself from crossing his arms over his chest. The fact that McCoy is through two years at the academy and should be beyond such behavior isn’t lost on Spock. 

Spock blinks, but doesn’t comment. Instead, he picks up one of the PADDs on his desk and lifts it, tapping through McCoy’s resume deliberately. 

“You have recently changed your assignment requests, Doctor.” 

McCoy lifts his brows in surprise, then huffs. “Yeah. All of two weeks ago. How’d you even know that?” 

“I have been tasked with putting together a crew for the Enterprise’s maiden voyage.” It is remarkably easy for his voice to find a placid, even tone in the face of McCoy’s brusqueness. “Therefore, it is my privilege and right to keep track of cadets of particular talent.”

McCoy doesn’t respond to the compliment, instead huffs a laugh. “Which is it? A privilege or a right?” 

“Why, both.” Spock lifts his brows even higher, and is distantly aware that he might be baiting McCoy. He may even be doing so intentionally. 

McCoy rolls his eyes. 

“You are not curious about the Enterprise, Doctor?” The ship has been under construction for several years, and new batches of cadets are purposefully docked in Riverside while en route to the academy. Starfleet wants them to see the ship as it is being made, to see the complexity and possibility of their time in the service. The highest goal to reach for, as it were. 

“It’s a starship. One’s about the same as another, for me.” He’s looking down at his feet, now, and not at Spock. 

“That puts you at odds with the rest of your classmates,” Spock informs him. McCoy shakes his head at the word “classmates.”

“Yeah? So does the fact that I’m thirty and know how to tie my own bootlaces. I’m not here to kiss ass and get myself onto the shiniest ship.” He scoffs, his entire countenance derisive. 

“And yet your record would claim otherwise,” Spock says carefully. McCoy either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that he’s being assessed, and Spock finds that oddly refreshing. He’s had 142 different messages from cadets and officers alike, volunteering for service aboard the Enterprise. But McCoy has not even hinted that he would want the assignment. 

McCoy shakes his head again. “I’m a doctor. I give it less than my best, and someone else pays the price for it. It’s not about commendations, you know. It’s about someone’s life.” 

Spock nods. The doctor’s record certainly is impressive. He receives the highest marks in all courses related to the medical field, works as both a practicing physician and a productive researcher. The rest of the curriculum he succeeds at, even if he isn’t acing every course. 

“You took your flight certifications four times,” Spock notes. It’s not quite a question, but he’d be lying if he claimed he wasn’t curious. And Vulcans do not lie. 

Now McCoy looks embarrassed, tilting his head to one side. But in another moment he looks back at Spock, something defiant flashing in his eyes. 

“That gonna be a problem? For whatever it is you’re vetting me for?” 

He can imagine Nyota smiling at such a comment, but all Spock does is incline his head. “As your last attempt was successful, I cannot see that it would be an issue. And persistence is an admirable quality, one of the most valuable found in humans.” 

McCoy mutters something under his breath, then straightens up. “Is there anything else?”

Spock shakes his head. “I have all I need.” McCoy immediately begins to turn back towards the door. “Although, Doctor McCoy, I would give you a word of caution. You have lived more years than I and are certainly distinguished in your field. But should you be selected for the Enterprise, or indeed any assignment, insubordination would not be tolerated. You would do well to become accustomed to forms of address sooner rather than later. For instance, you may address me as either Commander, or Sir.”

McCoy lets out a breath through his nose, a thoroughly undignified response. “Sure, _Commander_. I’ll think on that awhile.”

And then he leaves the office without waiting to be dismissed.

Finalizing the manifest later that week, Spock puts McCoy’s name on the list.

 

_2258.45  
The Enterprise – Just Beyond Jupiter_

Precision is something Spock prides himself on, his ability to maintain pinpoint accuracy in all things despite the circumstances. But he has never before had to endure the constant barrage that the last few days have been—the weight of loss has settled heavily on his shoulders, but despite the new impediment he still must function as a senior officer on a ship that has lost not only members of its crew but also the majority of its companions. 

He has felt, since just over a year ago, that the Enterprise belongs to him in some small way. As XO, personnel is his duty. And so while James Kirk sits in the captain’s chair and helps set a long and dragging course back to Earth, Spock busies himself with the members of the crew.

Nyota passes him briefly in the hall, on her way to the bridge. She raises two fingers to her lips and offers him a tender expression. 

“You should head down to medbay,” she says softly, when they’re close together. 

“Any injuries I sustained aboard the Narada have been tended to,” he tells her, although she is already aware of this. She had been in the medical bay at the time, watching over him. 

She shakes her head, scoffs at him. “Sure, the bruises and cuts. But you haven’t been eating, and you definitely haven’t slept.” She looks as though she’s about to say more, but she doesn’t, just reaches for one of his hands and holds it tightly. Later on, he will remember to thank her for not forcing him to acknowledge the emotional weight of this day. 

Nyota runs her fingers delicately over his knuckles, and he shuts his eyes and allows himself to revel in that contact for a moment. When she finally steps away, he blinks at her and nods. She returns to the bridge with the hint of a smile playing on her lips, though it doesn’t manage to dispel the gravity of her eyes.

 

\--

“Spock.” McCoy looks mildly surprised when Spock enters the medbay, his eyebrows rising in an expression that Spock could almost find familiar. But he recovers quickly, gestures Spock over to a biobed and forces him to sit with one strong hand on his shoulder. “What seems to be the problem?”

Spock notices that McCoy hasn’t yet grasped formal address. Or, perhaps, he’s still acting on the assumption that he can speak freely with Spock, as he’d bluntly asked to do hours… days… ago. 

When Spock doesn’t answer, McCoy whips out a tricorder and begins examining him while worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He’s the very picture of restrained hostility, his movements abrupt and his brow knitted. Eventually, he grabs a hypospray from the tray beside the biobed and begins adjusting its settings. 

“You are angry, Doctor,” Spock observes. 

McCoy never stops fiddling with the hypospray, barely even looks up. “Well, gee, Spock, you sure are a perceptive one.”

“I am inquiring as to the cause of your anger.” He explains this with stressed patience, trying not to look too warily at the hypospray. James Kirk had, after all, come to the bridge under the influence of McCoy’s medical treatment, earlier. Despite McCoy’s records, Spock questions his competency. 

“Then maybe you should’ve phrased your statement as a question,” McCoy says. He jabs the hypospray into Spock’s neck, but there’s no true force behind it. Spock barely feels the injection as he hears the cartridge release its contents with a hiss. 

“The prevailing mood aboard the Enterprise is fatigue, or wariness. Our crew has acquitted itself admirably, but I doubt the sorrow they collectively experience will be held at bay much longer.”

McCoy grunts, rolls his shoulders as he turns and begins jotting something down at the screen next to the bed. “They’ll keep it together. At least, until we’re back ho—on Earth.” 

Spock realizes McCoy would think of Earth as home, and he’s struck dumb, briefly, by the doctor’s tact. He does not wish to remind Spock of what he has lost, despite the fact that Spock could hardly have forgotten. 

“But your response is quite different, Doctor.” 

He shrugs. “Am I tired? Sure. I just spent eight hours in surgery trying to save a man’s life, and failing to save the bulk of his spinal cord. I lost every officer serving directly above me and a third of my staff beyond that. I don’t even want to _think_ about how many more’ve been lost on this ship, and out there in the black. Bodies floating without oxygen, maybe people who’d survived the initial attacks but knew they wouldn’t last, couldn’t be saved…”

McCoy’s words cut off abruptly, his entire body heaving as he, too, struggles for oxygen. Spock reacts logically—he leans back to give McCoy space, observes him carefully to see if anything is impeding his breathing. But, no—McCoy quickly steels himself, his hands curling into white-knuckled fists as he forces air in through his nose and out through his mouth. Once, twice, three times. Again and again until his color returns and his breathing evens to a natural pace. 

They remain—Spock seated and McCoy standing—for several long and stale moments. 

“Doctor,” Spock begins. “Are you quite alright?”

“I,” McCoy says at length. “I fucking hate space.”

He turns away, his back to Spock as he continues speaking. “You asked why I was angry? Maybe it’s because millions, billions of people are dead and the bastard who’s to blame is beyond justice, now. Maybe it’s because I’m standing in front of the man who threw my best friend onto an icy, abandoned planet, and it was only sheer, stupid luck that brought him back in time to save all of us. Maybe it’s because you’re sitting there, so goddamned calm, and I can’t be that.” He turns back around, eyes blazing. “I can’t be calm, I don’t understand why you are. Or how you _can_ be.” 

Spock isn’t sure how to answer. Emotion has been thundering through him since the entire incident began, and he hasn’t known what to do with it. It stays under his skin, growing more frantic. But this… what McCoy is able to do, to manifest his emotions as seemingly involuntary physical reactions and torrential tirades, that is something else entirely.

Perhaps, a small part of Spock thinks, it’s a more productive way of dealing with emotion. Releasing it out into the world. 

He dismisses those thoughts as quickly as he’d come to them.

“There is no such thing as ‘luck,’ doctor. And it is illogical to hate space, as the events we have experienced may have happened anywhere else. The term itself is a vague one, and space is not a singular expanse with one set of traits.” 

McCoy sputters, rolls his eyes skyward and then fixes Spock with a withering glare.

“You’re perfectly healthy, Spock.” He says. “Now go to your quarters and take a nap, _before_ going back on duty.”

Spock hears the dismissal for what it is, and rises from the biobed. 

“Wait,” McCoy says, when Spock is already several steps away. He pauses, and McCoy continues, “I’m sorry, you know. About everything that’s happened. Doesn’t mean you handled any of it right, but I am sorry. And when we get back to Earth and you start letting yourself feel this, like everyone else, I hope— I hope you’re alright.”

It’s such a sincere thought that Spock doesn’t know what to do with it. He chooses to leave the medbay rather than try.

 

\--

Four days later, the Enterprise is docked above San Francisco and the crew is beamed down to Earth in shifts. The senior officers come last—McCoy, back from escorting down Pike, takes his place on Kirk’s left, and Spock stands at his right. Nyota stands beside him, and in a row behind them stand Chief Scott, Lieutenant Sulu, and Ensign Chekov. 

They walk out into the hangar and are greeted by a crowd. Sulu peels off first, heading for an elderly woman with laugh lines and grey hair, and a gaggle of younger women that share enough of a resemblance to the pilot that Spock knows they are his sisters. Chekov is grabbed by a bear of a man and a petite woman, and Nyota brushes Spock’s arm as she spots her brother and mother. 

Sarek is there, waiting for Spock. He looks at his father and feels the loss of his mother more keenly. They will have to go to the consulate, to gather and discuss and grieve. But before they do Spock glances back and sees McCoy—standing next to Kirk and adult woman with wispy blonde hair, who must be Kirk’s mother. But standing on McCoy’s other side is a younger woman, with auburn hair and bright eyes. Her expression is measured, concerned but not effusive as the other visitors’. There’s a small child balanced on her hip, with chocolate-colored hair and round cheeks. She reaches for McCoy with both hands, and eventually McCoy scoops her up from the woman, crushes her in an encompassing hug while the woman stands to one side, her hands raised awkwardly now that they’re empty. 

They speak to each other, McCoy and the woman. But eventually Spock turns away with his father, and he doesn’t decipher what passes between them.

 

 _2258.63  
Earth – San Francisco_

After the Vengeance crashes into San Francisco, time seems to move slowly. Devoid of purpose, Spock finds himself spending his time at Starfleet Medical, hoping beyond logic that there will be news of the Captain’s condition. 

Ten days in, he pauses just outside the door of Captain Kirk’s room as he hears the locking mechanism disengage. The door slides open with a hiss, and there stands Doctor McCoy.

To use an English idiom Nyota has always been fond of, the doctor looks rough around the edges. Facial hair gathers on his cheeks from days without rest, and his eyes are outlined in an angry red that seems to have gathered under his skin and congregates. His lips are pursed into a fine line.

“Spock,” he says tersely. 

Spock is here to see the Captain, but as McCoy elbows past him he reaches out, taps the doctor lightly on the shoulder.

“What is it?” McCoy growls out the words, gnashing his teeth. 

Spock takes a deep breath, attempts to read past McCoy’s surface anger and lingering fatigue. He makes a concerted effort to try and understand the man before him. 

“I understand you worry for the Captain, Doctor,” he says, as evenly as he can. Of course, they are all worried for the Captain, despite Doctor McCoy and Doctor Marcus’s hopes that Khan’s blood will do its work. “But there seems to be more to your current state than mere concern.”

McCoy takes a step back, crosses his arms over his chest. Spock has often taken that gesture as a challenge, but now he reads it differently—it is a defense. It’s as though McCoy is holding himself together, and keeping the rest of the world out.

“You trying to psychoanalyze me now, Spock?” he asks. Normally, there would be a laugh, some dark chuckle to accompany the words. There is none, now.

Spock tilts his head. “If I thought you required psychiatric aid, I would recommend you to Doctor Dehner. I am merely inquiring about your well-being.”

He finds, as he says the words, that he is concerned. Of course, the entire crew of the Enterprise is his responsibility, but towards most of the other officers he has a specific duty. McCoy, as CMO, falls outside of his jurisdiction in many ways. He is almost an equal in rank, and has never bowed to protocol. 

He is very similar to the Captain, that way. 

McCoy shifts from one foot to the other, releases all his breath in a sigh. 

“I’m really angry with you, y’know.” He says, finally. 

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I fail to understand.” Perhaps the doctor is projecting. Using Spock as a target for his anger.

“You heard me,” McCoy mutters. “You keep doing this, don’t you? You’re as bad as Kirk.” It’s the first time Spock as heard McCoy refer to the Captain by his surname. 

“If your goal is to be understood, Doctor, you must specify.” Spock knows that he is goading the doctor, but he achieves the desired result.

McCoy huffs, throws his hands in the air. “This goddamn _hero_ act! You know exactly what I’m talking about! First on Nibiru, and then when the ship was going down! Sulu _told_ me, so don’t bother denying it.” 

Spock processes these statements, but doesn’t understand McCoy’s anger. He lightly takes a step back. “It is never my intention to position myself as a ‘hero’ in these events. That would be—”

“Illogical,” McCoy cuts him off. “Yeah, I know. But just ‘cause you won’t admit to it, doesn’t mean that’s not what you’re doing.” 

He forces himself to look inward, to analyze the events McCoy has referred to. On Nibiru, he simply took himself out of the equation entirely. The well-being of an entire planet was worth more than his life. And then, when the Enterprise had been in danger of crashing… that was a Captain’s duty. To go down with his ship, to ensure the safety of his crew. He’d taught that lesson for so long, it seemed inherent. Immutable. 

“Are you even listening to me?” McCoy’s voice is heated, scratchy from fatigue. 

“Of course, Doctor. However, I do believe that you are misconstruing what has occurred.” 

McCoy snorts. “No, I’m not. And you want the proof?” 

Spock inclines his head.

“Harrison. Or Khan, or whatever the fuck we’ve decided to call him. When you went after him. Even if you didn’t know we needed him alive, what you did…”

McCoy trails off, and Spock finds himself undeniably curious. 

“I was not acting logically at the time,” he says, after a moment of stifling silence. “I allowed baser instinct to control my responses, and in doing so I—”

“You almost killed a man, Spock!” McCoy sounds scandalized, his voice hushed and raw. Spock cannot imagine why McCoy would even imagine mourning Khan, after all the death and destruction the augment had wrought. 

So, he says as much. “Had that been the only way to stop him, yes. It is not worth letting a man live, who would just as quickly kill many more.” 

McCoy’s hands have settled at his sides, fingers curling into fists and then uncurling again—over and over. 

“It’s not just that, though,” McCoy says quietly. He’s starting at the ground, not meeting Spock’s eyes. “You let yourself feel it, didn’t you? As soon as he was gone, and right away. It was more important that anything—to avenge him. Isn’t that right?”

It certainly isn’t an incorrect assessment. Now that Khan has been neutralized and the Captain is as safe as he can be, Spock isn’t sure what to make of those emotions, those baser instincts. And yet, he cannot imagine acting any differently in the same circumstances. 

“It was the appropriate response,” he says, finally.

This time McCoy does laugh, dark and hollow. “Oh, sure. The one time you finally show a feeling—some kinda grief, anything! And that’s how you show it.” 

Was it the threat of murder that offended McCoy the most? Or something else? Spock lets his impression of, his connection to, the doctor shift. He tries to stand in McCoy’s place, see the entire situation from McCoy’s perspective. When he does, he smiles, faintly.

“Are you mocking me, Spock?”

“Not at all, Doctor. I merely realized that you had the more logical reaction.”

“How’s that?”

“I had thought to solve matters by ending a life. You response was precisely the opposite—you wished to save one. And in any case, that would be the best option.” 

He can hear the Captain’s heart monitor, beeping away steadily. It won’t be long until he wakes, of that Spock is sure. He looks back at McCoy and sees the doctor’s cheeks reddening. 

He allows the smile to linger; he feels something like victory at having caught McCoy speechless. 

\--

 _2260.75  
Unnamed M-Class Planet_

“Jim, I swear to god, if you leave me to die down here on a planet with Spock, I will never, ever forgive you.” McCoy has been yelling similar statements into his communicator for the better part of an hour, and Spock is encouraging himself to not find it offensive. After all, he is now more than familiar with the doctor’s mercurial moods, and his sudden outbursts. That Spock is the current target of those outbursts is neither unexpected nor unusual. 

But Spock is leaning up against the wall of their partially-damaged shuttle, his broken arm expertly bound and splinted. He can still feel sweat beading down his brow, and knows that his body is overcompensating to manage the pain. Unfortunately, McCoy’s handheld regen and the majority of his supplies had been lost in the crash. 

“Ion disturbance, Bones,” he hears the Captain’s voice say. “Can’t beam down, we’re gotta readjust—just, keep me posted? –Bones?” His voice comes in and out, but always seems to catch on McCoy’s nickname. Spock has never had much patience for nicknames. 

“Doctor,” Spock manages, his voice rough. He swallows, tries again. “Doctor.”

McCoy is at his side in a moment, lips pursed between his words. “What is it, Spock? More pain?”

Spock shakes his head. “The shuttle,” he says. “You’re certified to pilot it back to the Enterprise.”

McCoy laughs hollowly. Both of them know that McCoy has piloted a shuttle only a handful of times, and never without a copilot. Most often, it is the Captain or Doctor Marcus who accompanies him. Never an injured Spock who is having trouble keeping his vision clear.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” McCoy scoffs. “We’ll wait it out. You’ll be fine. I mean, infection aside we can—we’ll wait, alright?”

Spock shakes his head. “You can fly us to safety, Doctor.” He finds he believe the words. In another time, another place, he would trust McCoy with his very soul. He certainly trusts him with his life.

McCoy bites down on his lower lip, draws a shaky breath.

“Alright. Alright.” 

Spock could almost smile. “After all,” he adds. “You sat your exam four times.”

McCoy sputters, and this time Spock does smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Lenz's law is a common way of understanding how electromagnetic circuits obey Newton's third law and the conservation of energy. Lenz's law is named after Heinrich Lenz, and it says: "An induced electromotive force (emf) always gives rise to a current whose magnetic field opposes the original change in magnetic flux."
> 
> \--
> 
> Ah, this fic went through so many edits and changes in form that I hope the final version reads somewhat coherently! I hope you enjoyed it, PsiCygni-- I loved all of your requested match-ups, and wish I could've written for each of them.


End file.
